by Kathy Reichs
She looks up. Surreptitiously searches the faces circling the table. They are tense. Closed. They tell her nothing.
There is only one person she can truly trust.
She must warn him. But she can’t do it with others around.
Her knees quake so hard against her chair she fears they will notice. Her skin crawls. She resists the urge to check her clothing for bugs. Places her hands in her lap.
She makes a decision. She will share her secret place.
She finds a chance while reshelving plates in the pantry. They are alone.
He listens, apprehension apparent in his eyes. She tells him about the clearing. Says it’s urgent they meet there.
He refuses. She presses, using a stern church-whisper voice. He finally agrees.
She says the meeting must be at night. Admits to her nocturnal adventure.
He gives her the dropped-jaw face. The one she despises. She says things she will later regret.
Not a budge in his opposition.
She has to convince him.
I returned to Argyle Street to stake out Kerr’s building. She never showed, and no one else went in or came out. Oddly, I was hearing nothing from Gus.
I thought of burgling Kerr’s place again, decided it was unnecessary. Given the large tote and the duffel, I figured she was headed for new digs. Good. Any movement was better than none. Unless I’d signed a death warrant for Stella Bright.
I called it quits at seven, bought solvent at a sporting goods store, cotton swabs and a new burner at a Target, was back at the Ritz by eight. I cleaned the Glock, set up the mobile, finally fell asleep just past two.
I was chasing someone down tracks, or being chased, when a whistle shrieked. The train was close and barreling right at me.
Every muscle and neuron went from zero to sixty. My eyes flew open. Heart pounding, I shot upright.
The room was dark, the shriek coming from the bedside table. The old Walmart phone. Caller ID told me it was Gus. Of course it was. Only he and Beau had the number.
“What’s happening?” Struggling to bring my voice up to speed with my adrenals.
“Did I wake you?”
My eyes flicked to the digits at the top of the screen. “It’s three in the morning.”
“Not here.”
“Where are you?”
“Land of fruit and nuts.”
That took me a moment. “California?”
“L.A. City of Angels. Thinking of setting up some auditions.”
“Where’s Kerr?”
“She’s here.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“The Marina Seven Motel in Venice. Free cable and parking. No ocean view.”
“You’re there, too?”
Gus gave me his room number. And Kerr’s.
“Why haven’t you called?”
“Battery issues.”
Seriously?
“I’ll catch the first flight out. Did anyone meet Kerr at the airport? The motel?”
“She got a cab, bought take-out Mexican en route, checked in here, hasn’t left her room. Her window’s been dark for twenty minutes now. I’ll stay up and keep watching.”
“Life in the fast lane.”
“Wish I had a Whopper.”
“I’ll bring you one.”
“Wish I had the Luger.”
“Where is it?”
“Assorted trash barrels at ORD.”
“I’ll get you—”
“It’s covered. I like this town.”
“Yeah?”
“I think I saw De Niro at LAX.”
“Everyone thinks they see De Niro at LAX.”
“Can you collect my clothes? Bring what you can, have the concierge ship the rest to Beau?”
“The hotel will do that?”
“It’s the Ritz, baby. I’ll call with instructions.”
After disconnecting, I got online. The first flight with availability departed at 9:50 A.M., getting me into Los Angeles at 12:23. Row twenty, middle seat. First class was chock-full of the wealthy and the lucky upgraded.
I tried to sleep, didn’t really pull it off. At six I gave up and descended to the front desk. Gus was right about the service. For a fee, the hotel was delighted to FedEx his bag to any destination of his choosing. A bellhop let me in to gather his things. Which were abundant. I couldn’t imagine how he’d gotten so many garments into such a small suitcase. And still managed to look unwrinkled. I wondered if he actually spent time ironing. Or why he bothered.
By 7:30 I was on my way to O’Hare. In the taxi, I phoned Layton Furr, explained where I was going, and asked him to clear the two bills at the Ritz. I also asked him to tell Roy Capps. And Peter Crage in Charleston.
Though tired, I never dozed off on the flight. Or absorbed much Tolstoy. I was wedged between an old man who snored wetly and a woman who sneezed and blew her nose for seventeen hundred miles.
At LAX, I collected my bag, rode a shuttle from terminal four to terminal seven, then took a cab to the Motel 6 on Century Boulevard. After checking in and paying cash for one night, I went to my room and phoned Gus. He reported that Kerr was having a salad at the Venice Ale House. He was watching her eat.
I reassembled then repacked the Glock. While I didn’t need a permit to carry concealed in Los Angeles, I wanted no hassle. And I was certain I hadn’t been followed. Then I took a taxi to Venice. On the way I bought two Whopper meals.
The Marina 7 looked like half the motels in America—a two-story L, with entrances off a sidewalk bordering a parking lot below, off a railed balcony above. I asked for a room for one night, you know the drill. The geezer at the desk had leathery skin, a long gray beard that he’d braided, puka beads, and a Grateful Dead tee. Unlike some of his Magnificent Mile counterparts, he didn’t question my desire to pay in cash.
My room was on the upper level. It had faux Early American furniture and a sink outside the bathroom. The window was covered by short blood-red and pea-green floral drapes. The bed had a pea-green spread and fuzzy red blanket draped across the foot. The attention to decorative detail went unappreciated.
I unpacked my jeans and the undies and sweaters I’d brought, left Gus’s clothes in the case. I hung the holstered Glock on a hook in the closet, set up the motion detector. Then I phoned room 207.
No answer. I considered dialing Gus’s mobile, decided against it. He knew I was coming, would contact me when he could.
Antsy, I looked out my window. Scanned the street. The parking lot. The ground-level rooms. Kerr’s drapes were closed. I cracked the door and looked in both directions along the balcony. Gus’s drapes were also closed.
The room was thick with the smell of charbroiled burgers and oil-soaked spuds. I ate one of the Whoppers and all of the fries. Looked out the window some more.
California’s State Route 1 runs from Mendocino County in the north to Orange County in the south and goes by many names. Pacific Coast Highway. Coast Highway. Shoreline Highway. Since the pavement navigates some of the most primo scenery in the land—the Golden Gate Bridge, Marin County, Big Sur—it’s designated an All-American Road.
It was not so picturesque where I was standing. Here the PCH was called Lincoln Boulevard. Lots of traffic, car rental joints, strip malls, a car wash, Venice Boulevard off to the left. Didn’t matter. Nothing had changed since the last time I looked.
The carbs and lack of sleep were slamming me. I yawned. Rolled my shoulders. Checked my watch. 3:10. 6:10 East Coast time.
I transferred the Glock to the bedpost and stretched out on the pea-green spread. For once, sleep came hard and fast.
The phone rang at 3:49.
“You got the Whoppers?”
“Yes.”
“Fries?”
“Long story. Where are you?”
“My little slice of paradise, to the left down the balcony.”
“Come over.” I told him my room number.
One minute later there was a knock on the d
oor. I squinted through the peephole. Gus was wearing the fedora, a lavender polo, and jeans. In his hand was a six-pack of Beck’s.
I undid all the locks and Gus came in. He reached up to give me a hug. Fighting the reflex to stiffen, I hunched down to return it.
Gus stepped back. His eyes went to the white paper bag with its red and yellow logo, the bunched wrapper and two empty packets beside it. Slight frown, but he said nothing.
“The burger might still be warm,” I said. “The Coke’s probably not great.”
He removed the Fedora and set it on the bed. We talked while he ate.
“After checking out here, Kerr went to an apartment on Rose Avenue, half a block off the boardwalk.” Through tidy mastication, “We should move to a place with an ocean view. Maybe Shutters on the Beach.”
“Any sign of Stella?”
“No.”
“What’s Kerr been doing?”
“Busy morning. A trip to a pharmacy. A walk on the beach. A visit to a place that’ll teach you to surf. Lunch.”
“You just left her there?”
“She’s a slow eater.”
“You couldn’t call?”
“I forgot your new number in my room. Life would be easier if you had a permanent phone like normal people.”
“Or shorter.” I pointed. “You have sauce.”
Gus swiped a napkin across his chin.
“Well then,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“That’s it?”
I waited while he chewed, swallowed, sipped one of the Beck’s. “We aren’t the only ones watching Kerr.”
“What?”
“We aren’t the only ones watching Kerr.”
“I heard you. I’m questioning your meaning.”
“Someone other than ourselves has Kerr under surveillance.” Overly precise.
“What?” To clarify, “Why do you say that?”
“There’s a guy hanging around. Thinks he’s slick, but he’s obvious as a hooker at Mass.”
“How so?”
“He either trails Kerr or hangs out at the top of the block, in the public parking area. Never goes to a car, just stands watching her building. Talks on a cell. Everyone else is in tees or tanks. Or bikinis. I like this beach.”
“Gus.”
“It’s eighty degrees. This douche is decked out like the Marlboro Man. Stetson, boots, suede jacket.”
“He packing?”
“Oh yeah. Shoulder rig. He keeps adjusting it. Probably sweating like a pig under all that cowhide.”
“Describe him.”
Gus tugged his phone from his pocket, clicked to a photo, and handed it to me.
Stetson was standing on a narrow strip of grass, arms crossed on his chest. Behind him stretched a wide expanse of pavement. Beyond the pavement, sand. I used my thumb and forefinger to enlarge the image.
I couldn’t tell the guy’s age. Not young, not old. Long and lean. Dark Oakleys. Under the hat, his hair looked dirty blond.
“He one of the bombers in the Forester?” Gus asked.
“I don’t think so. Does he look dangerous?”
“He looks like he thinks so.”
“Did he spot you?”
Gus leveled his eyes on mine.
“Right.” I gave him the phone.
We both fell silent. I spoke first.
“Why tail Kerr?” I asked.
“They want something from her.”
“Why not just snatch her off the street?”
“Huh.”
“Maybe Kerr’s not the target,” I said.
“Then who is?”
“Me.”
“Makes sense.” Speaking slowly, as though reviewing footage in his head. “She goes in and out all morning. Short trips, open places. Stetson follows but hangs back. He’s watching to see if someone is tailing her. They’re a team. He’s the hunter, she’s the lure.”
“How about we join in the chase?” The adrenaline was already humming. “I watch Kerr. Stetson watches me. You watch him.”
“What if their strategy is to kill you on sight?”
“They did try that once.”
“Twice.”
“Good point,” I said.
“Neither attempt went well for their side.”
“Another good point.”
“Maybe this time they’ll bring more to the game.”
“As have I.”
“Meaning me?”
“Meaning you, twin bro.”
Gus took the suitcase and returned to his room. After phoning the office to say I was checking out, I placed my key on the dresser, strapped on the Glock and slipped into my jacket, and left the motel.
Following Gus’s suggestion, I went left on Lincoln, left again at Rose Avenue. The sidewalk was narrow and, where palms struggled up from small dirt squares in the pavement, piled with feces, both canine and human.
Some blocks were trying hard for hip—Whole Foods, trendy eateries, a chic yoga studio. Others hadn’t given a damn since the sixties—a dollar store, cheap top shops, a Hare Krishna temple, a barn-style restaurant offering buffalo wings and sushi.
Brooding over the northwest corner of the Main Street intersection was an enormous clown, half ballerina and half hobo, stuck above a CVS pharmacy like a bug on a pin. On seeing it, my heartbeat became a war engine. Ridiculous, I know. But my subconscious has its own take on the world. One it rarely explains.
The last stretch was a mix of low-rise apartments and Craftsman-style bungalows. The Venice on the Beach and Rose hotels took up most of the north side.
Kerr’s address was on the south side, toward the Pacific Avenue end. I walked past it to the boardwalk and bought a visor from the first vendor I saw. It featured a dog in sunglasses and said, fittingly, VENICE BEACH.
Wearing my new visor and my Maui Jims, I went to the Venice Ale House and asked the waitress at the outdoor podium for outdoor seating. She gestured at a collection of picnic tables, some occupied, most empty. Help yourself. I settled in a spot near the street. Ordered an Anchor Steam. Continued making myself obvious while pretending to act sly.
Kerr’s address was a two-story calamity with mustard-colored siding and a front porch stacked with a mind-boggling array of junk. In front was a rectangle of pavement big enough to accommodate one car. The rectangle was empty. A lone palm threw a needle of shadow over the whole.
A larger paved area butted up to the structure’s east side, parking probably shared with the neighbors. Occupying three of the slanted spots were a red Honda Civic, a silver Lexus, and a black SUV, maybe a Nissan Pathfinder, all empty.
I watched Kerr’s building. The traffic on Rose and Speedway. The pedestrians clogging the street in front of me and the boardwalk behind me. The surfers and sun worshippers wore little but skin. The tourists, dog walkers, Rollerbladers, and skateboarders a bit more. Though that was variable. I didn’t see Gus.
I was nursing the Anchor Steam when I noticed a white Volkswagen Jetta cruise by slowly, make a U-turn, and head back up Rose. No biggie. Opposite where I sat, the street dead-ended into a beach parking area. Either lost or unwilling to fork over the cash, other drivers were making the same about-face.
Seven minutes later the Jetta was back. A man was at the wheel, one elbow jutting from the open window. The elbow was pasty white. The man had a bulldog neck. That’s all I could tell. He drove to the kiosk, paid, and parked in the lot. He didn’t get out.
Another ten minutes passed. I finished the beer. The waitress asked if I wanted another. I told her I’d switch to lemonade. She gave me a sad look. I returned it.
The waitress had just delivered my nonfestive beverage when a Range Rover pulled into the single space in front of Kerr’s building. Two men got out. One was Stetson. He went inside. The other man strode in my direction.
I looked over my shoulder. Bulldog had left the Jetta and was smoking toward me. The plan was obvious. A fast ambush with moi caught in the middle. The plan was also m
oronic.
Ahead, Rose Avenue was busy but manageable. At my back, the boardwalk was crowded to the south, empty to the north. Beyond the boardwalk were the parking lot, sand, and a whole lot of ocean.
I had cover, room to maneuver. A tangled neighborhood with many streets barring vehicle access. Easy, if I wanted to get away. I didn’t.
Leaving money under my glass, I wove my way through the tables and stood on the sidewalk with my back to the restaurant. Feet spread, arms loose at my sides, I waited. Relaxed but ready.
Forced to confront me face-on, my attackers stopped three feet away, shoulders inches apart. They probably called it the wall formation.
Bulldog was toned, but not as tall as his collar size had suggested, five ten tops. He had a hawk nose, small eyes, sensationally bad acne scars. I suspected he was one of the men in the Bnos Aliza SUV.
Looking at Bulldog’s pal was like looking at a gorilla sans African majesty—darkly shadowed orbits, oversize chin and jaw, no lips. Body like King Kong.
Both men wore gaudy Hawaiian shirts that wouldn’t have worked anywhere in our fiftieth state. The reason for their choice was quickly apparent.
Kong pulled a Beretta from his waistband and leveled it at me. A double-J tat decorated the base of his right thumb. “Don’t try anything stupid.”
“Really?” I said. “No aloha?”
“You’re coming with us.”
“No.” I smiled.
“We’re all going to walk up the street, nice and slow, friends enjoying a day at the beach.” Soft accent. Lowland gorilla?
“I’ll bet you guys dig Iz. I can never spell his last name. Starts with a K, has a kicky little ‘okina that says clear your throat.”
“Turn around.” Kong gestured with the Beretta.
“Don Ho? Maybe you’re ‘Tiny Bubbles’ guys?” Heat sizzling in my chest.
Still Kong ignored me. “Mitts out where I can see them.”
I started to raise my hands.
“Out from your body! Not up.” Eyes darting to see who was taking an interest.
I extended my arms. Bulldog stepped forward and frisked me. Found the Glock. Took and slid it under his blue and orange parrots.
“Hawaii Five-O? I know. You’re playing McGarrett.” Pointing at Kong. “And you’re Danno.” Pointing at Bulldog.
